


downtimes at dead dawg

by itllbeall-dwight (dupesoclock)



Category: Dead by Daylight (Video Game)
Genre: Alcohol, F/M, Gen, World Headcanons, lots of it. they're in the damn saloon, oh btw the relationship can be read as platonic or romatic ala flirting idk man
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-18
Updated: 2020-06-18
Packaged: 2021-03-03 21:41:06
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,815
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24792517
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dupesoclock/pseuds/itllbeall-dwight
Summary: in between trials, the entity turns its ceaseless watch away. during these times, peace is made.
Relationships: Zarina Kassir & Caleb Quinn | The Deathslinger, Zarina Kassir/Caleb Quinn | The Deathslinger
Comments: 3
Kudos: 33





	downtimes at dead dawg

**Author's Note:**

> when in the middle of depressive episode, finish a fic where everything is ok.
> 
> so i recently fell in love with deathslinger/zarina as a ship and so i wanted to write a nice, feelgood fic.. this is purely self indulgent and for me only actually/j
> 
> i miiight add another chapter or two to this tbh, I've got ideas... idk tho, I'll see if you guys want it.
> 
> kudos and comments appreciated as always, and a reminder that my tumblr is always open for asks for headcanons and writing reqs. oh, and a mirror to rb over there is [here](https://itwillbeall-dwight.tumblr.com/post/621288611796647936/downtime-at-dead-dawg). remember to be kind to ourselves and stay safe!!

It was louder in here than it had been in a long time. He wasn’t sure if he liked it or not.

The piano wasn’t being played by ghosts this time. Among the white noise of idle chatter from the saloon floor down below him was the tickling of ivories at a fast pace, courtesy of that Macmillan guy, mask pulled up now as he ran his hand up and down the stained keys with precision, though a bit rusty at times - a well-trained pianist, in whatever past he had. That athletic survivor with the ginger braids stuck close by, clapping along to the rhythm with a smile on her face. There was another survivor on the other side of the killer, the bear on the back of her jersey clearly in view from the balcony as she tried to touch the bottom keys of the piano without getting her wrists slapped. They seemed happy enough. 

Others were scattered among the odd tables that littered the saloon floor, creating the blanket of white noise that overlaid the music. From one, he saw the snapping movements of the spectral ghostly girl as she sat beside two survivors, a kind man in a trenchcoat and the hardy looking girl with goggles, the two of them talking and occasionally giving the spectre a chance to input - she was laughing, a wide smile distorting her face, occasionally giving the man a soft and thankful glance when she was sure he was paying her no mind. From another, many people surrounded the tough-looking survivor with the undercut and the strong killer with the rabbit mask as they partook in a battle of brute strength - an arm-wrestling match, with support from both sides of the playing field, cheering them on and clapping in glee. At the bar sat a quiet group of four - older men, supposedly wiser, he would have thought, if not for the idiot wearing sunglasses indoors and the man with the metal hand, both clearly drinking more than they could handle. Even from the balcony, the apologetic glances exchanged between the older soldier and the detective were plain as day to see, their companions too delirious from alcohol to pay that much mind.

“You want a drink, cowboy?”

The voice beside him almost startled him, making him jump to look down at the woman in the brown woollen scarf, holding two glasses of whiskey. She held one out to him, and he took it with a quiet thank you, more than expecting to resume people-watching alone and in silence, watching on as killer and survivor alike had raided his realm for a good time - a break from the killing and the madness, if only for a moment or two.

But she didn’t. Instead, she moved around him and took his side, resting her elbows on the balcony and joining him. She took a small sip from her glass. “You know, it’s crazy. Soon you’re just going to go back to slaughtering us for fun.”

“You assume it’s fun.” He gruffly replied, glancing down at her to meet her eyes.

“Are you implying it’s not?”

Caleb chuckled. “...Yeah, no, it’s  _ real  _ fun.”

“Yeah, I thought so.” She returned the laugh in kind, though hers was a lot gentler than his - less rough, less biting. The killer turned his head to look down on her, at the expression on her face as she looked down to her friends and enemies below, a smile on her face. He followed her gaze down to the arm wrestling match, where the undercut survivor was shaking his hand and cursing to himself, his opponent stretching her strong arms above her head and placing a hand on her shoulder, where the infected priestess had placed her own hand in congratulations, whispering blessings in foreign tongues that Caleb didn’t care to understand. 

The two remained silent and just watched the occurrences on the floor below. The idiot in sunglasses had climbed into the bar counter now, in the process of removing the tan suit jacket he wore with the encouragement of his fellow drunkard before being dragged off of the bar and outside by his sober, bearded compatriot. From underneath the balcony, the quiet boy almost always armed with a toolbox walked out, carrying a large pot of bubbling liquid and placing it on one of the empty tables, the leather-masked fellow and the hunched over swamp witch following behind him excitedly, ready to show off their cooking skills to the rest of the gathering.

The company at the piano had grown now, Macmillan having moved to let someone else take a seat - one of the survivors, the bigger woman in the pinstripe suit, whose piano playing was delicate, light and slow, accompanied now by the sound of a guitar, as the tattooed blonde survivor sat on its lid and played along and gently plucked the instrument's strings, the third member of their little musical entourage being the sound of a haunting, tolling bell from the tree-like man in the torn cloak, his addition giving the piece a melancholy vibe. Sat on the other side of the piano lid was the floating nurse, and though no expression was visible on her face due to the bag covering her face, the way she relaxed told him she was enthralled with the performance. 

Caleb looked back down at the woman still by his side, her expression still soft as she looked among the crowd. As if knowing she was being watched, she looked up again, not fearing to stare directly into his eyes as she did. 

“You know… we don’t even know your names. You don’t know ours. Isn’t that crazy?”

He paused, raising an eyebrow. “Why would it? Attachment ‘n that. Makes shit harder.”

“Like you would have sympathy.”

“Some of us have a heart, ma’am.”

She paused. “...Deep down, somewhere. I suppose you’re right. Though, it’s not entirely true. I know who you are. By chance. Maybe that’s why…”

He watched as her hand fell to the flashing device on her belt, a subtle red light blinking on and off. “...Huh. Nosey, aint’cha?”

“It gets me ahead in my line of work, Mr. Quinn.” She looked up as he flinched with a smirk, clearly not bluffing now, before her eyes fell back onto the crowd.

Following her gaze again, which was once again placed on the arm-wrestling pair, Caleb heard her chuckle, moving her arms again to hang over the balcony in a delicate criss-cross. “Oh, David’s at it again.”

David. Must be the idiot with too little hair. Caleb looked down at him as he pressed his elbow against the table, and flexed his fingers with a pained grin, ready for another round. “...Hardy one, ain’t he?”

“I’d call it stupid. Only Nea would encourage his behaviour, and there she is.”

Sure enough, by the man’s side was the girl in the beanie, almost shouting in his ear as both beratement and encouragement - he swore he could almost see the sweat on David’s brow as she continued on. He hummed, his loose jaw cracking slightly before he snapped it back into place.

“And isn’t Jane’s music lovely?” She continued, a free and open hand signalling back to the piano. “I never expected her to be a pianist, and yet, the way she makes music with Kate is stunning.”

“...Sounds nice.” 

“Kate normally plays for us all, for a morale boost, it’s lovely. ...Ah, and look at that. The Spirit is a little less terrifying-looking like that. I never considered Adam to be the comedian type, he’s much too serious for that, and yet...” A pointed finger lead to the table of three again, where the spectral girl still giggled, her nose shrivelling up and as she tapped out her hand in defeat, the girl in goggles laughing along with her nose pinched between her fingers, a free hand nursing a glass.

Caleb hummed again in acknowledgement, looking down at the scarved woman again, and her soft features, before nudging her softly with an elbow. “You’re not slick, ya know, missy. Tryna teach me somethin’ new an’ all. Think that’s gonna save ya?”

“Ha, guess not. Just thought I’d give it a shot.” She shrugged, twirling some hair between her fingers as, again, she stared him in the face, with no fear, and even a soft smile on her face. “And my name is Zarina. In case you wanted to know.”

He looked away, back down below - there was a commotion with the dinner plans, it seemed. He didn’t care to get involved. “Well, I didn’t.”

“ _ Well _ , too bad.” Zarina almost mocked him with her tone, before she took a drink, finishing off the last of her glass as she tipped her head back, and wiping her mouth with the back of her arm in some mock-macho movement.

There was a beat of silence. “...S’a pretty name, regardless.”

“Huh?”

“You heard me.” Dark eyes looked down at her again, and with another gentle snap of his jaw, Caleb gave her a lopsided grin, to which she gave him a half-hearted shove.

“Now who’s trying to get some sympathy points, huh?”

“Hey, just tellin’ the lady what she already knows.”

The odd pair shared a laugh, before the cowboy too finished off his drink in a movement similar to hers before, then holding out his free hand to take her empty glass. “One more, for the road?”

Zarina looked down at his hand, palm dried and scarred from years of working with his gun, before she placed the bottom of her glass into it. “If you enjoy my company, you can just say so, cowboy.”

“Ha. Keep dreamin’, Princess.” Heavy boots creaked against the wood of the balcony, as he descended down the stairs to the bar. 

The night carried on, many survivors and killer alike finding it hard to stand after indulging in the rare pleasure that was alcohol in this realm. The darkness grew darker before everyone returned to their own dwellings until the trial resumed. 

Boots on the counter of the bar, Caleb poured himself one final drink, listening to the last of the footsteps behind him. “‘Night, Zarina.”

She looked behind her, finding his eyes on her as she hauled the arm of a barely conscious Dwight over her shoulder, hoping to help their leader back to the campfire in one piece. A small smile fell on her features. “...Goodnight, Caleb.”

He suppressed the small inhale and choke of his drink as she said his name again, for the second time that night, listening to the sound of her footsteps and mumbles back and forth with the messy spectacled boy grew quieter and quieter, leaving him alone again, with the creaking of floorboards and the ghosts on the piano, until the next time he was called to service here again, gun in hand. 


End file.
